That Old Cape Magic

doesn’t make sense, but it does.”
    Which it did, as far as it went. “Fine,” he said. “Now I understand.”
    “And I really hate it when you do that.”
    “When I ask you to explain something? I’m not entitled to understand your thinking?”
    “No, I hate it when you talk to me in script metaphors. My ‘story isn’t tracking.’ It has ‘continuity problems.’ Like I’m making things up. Like we’re still in L.A. Like you wish we’d never left. Like you regret the life we have.”
    Of course he knew better than to say what came next, though it wasn’t the words themselves. If he’d delivered the line with a good-natured, self-deprecating grin, all would have been well. That’s probably what he was trying for, but he could feel the tight grimace on his features when he said, “Aren’t you going a little ‘over the top’?”
    Before Joy could respond, his cell vibrated in the cup holder, and irritation morphed instantly into full-blown rage.
“What
, Mom?” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “What? What? What?”
    It took a while, but they finally found where they’d honeymooned. It was smaller than Griffin remembered but otherwise unchanged, except that it was no longer an inn. An elderly woman in a straw hat was weeding the mulch around some new plantings on the front lawn. She looked up when she heard the car door shut and struggled to her feet as he approached. “It’s hell getting old,” she said, shading her eyes with one hand, scout fashion. “I’d like to ride in a car like that once more before I die.”
    “You just might be the woman of my dreams,” Griffin said.
    “Who’s that, then?” she wondered, indicating Joy.
    “My wife. She hates it.”
    “Her hair, right?”
    He nodded.
    “Attractive woman. What can an old lady do for you?”
    “This used to be an inn,” he told her, aware that this might not be news to her. “My wife and I stayed here on our honeymoon. Thirty-four years ago.”
    “I’ve owned it almost that long,” she said, turning to regard it. “Bought it with my husband. Then the rat-bastard up and died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re
sorry?”
    She turned back to look him over. She had the palest, most piercing blue eyes he’d ever seen, full of kindness but even more full of intelligence. He’d hate to have to lie to her for a living. She looked in Joy’s direction. “So what’s wrong?”
    “We’ve been arguing.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re
sorry?” he said. “Can you recommend an inn here in Truro?”
    She shook her head. “Between here and Provincetown there isn’t much but motels. Borderline sleazy, most of them. You want something nice, you’d best head back toward Wellfleet. Couple of good inns there.”
    “Thanks. We’ll take your advice.”
    “Do that.”
    “If you don’t mind my saying, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman of your generation use the term
rat-bastard
before.”
    “I used to be a writer. Still love words, the sound of them.
Fart-hammer
is my new favorite, though I can’t seem to find a sentence to put it in.”
    “What did you write?”
    “Biography, mostly. A poem or two, when the fit was on me. ‘Strange fits of passion I have known…’”
    “‘And I will dare to tell, / But in the Lover’s ear alone, / What once to me befell,’” he continued. But if his ability to finish the stanza impressed the old woman, she gave no sign. “My parents were both English professors,” he explained, stifling the urge to tell her that one of them happened to be in the trunk of the car. “I’m another, actually. And a writer, too.”
    “Hah!” she said. “No wonder your wife’s in tears.”
    It was true. Joy was crying. She hadn’t been when he got out of the car, but now she was. Silently, but not trying to hide the fact, either.
    “Go to her,” the woman suggested.
    “I can’t stay here?”
    “I’m sorry, no.”
    Back in the car he took a deep breath. “Are you going to tell me about it, Joy? I know you called him back when I was in the shower.” He’d seen it listed on the phone’s recent calls list.
    She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about, and he was grateful for that. She wiped her tears on the back of her wrist, and for a moment they just sat there. The old woman had gone back to her weeding, though Griffin had the distinct impression she hadn’t forgotten about them.
    Finally, Joy said, “We can talk about it if you want. But first call